


Host

by jonnimir



Series: Kinkterror: A Month of Erotic Horror [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alien Hannibal Lecter, Body Horror, Creature Fic, Erotic Horror, Extreme Deepthroating, Gaslighting, Graphic transformation sequence, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-consensual eggpreg, Oviposition, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stomach Bulge, Tentacle Dick, a dash of blood/gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnimir/pseuds/jonnimir
Summary: “The medication I’ve been giving you has been altering your body structure, preparing you—but the timing is crucial. And it seems you’ve reached the ideal stage for me to continue.”“Prepare me?” Will asked, voice cracking slightly. His mind raced—altering his body? “How? For what?”“To become a host.”





	Host

**Author's Note:**

> For Kinkterror Week 3: Creature Feature.
> 
> Please mind the tags! All this is non-consensual filth and basically an excuse for playing with body horror.

Will had been under the weather for weeks now. At least, “under the weather” was the best he could do to describe it when his doctor came up with no legitimate diagnosis to explain his symptoms—namely fever, nausea, vertigo, and his usual nightmares escalating into night terrors. Hannibal had given him a supplement to take after his symptoms first emerged, but if anything they’d gotten worse after that. He continued to take the pills at Hannibal’s assurance that there was no chance their side effects were having a negative impact on him, but eventually a day came when he had to cancel his weekly appointment because he wasn’t feeling well enough to drive over. Demonstrating as much concern for Will’s welfare as usual, Hannibal insisted on visiting Will’s house to check on him.

Even though it was afternoon, Will was still in his pajamas when Hannibal arrived, the process of finding more appropriate clothes seeming too exhausting at the moment. He grimaced with embarrassment when he opened the door, but he wasn’t about to turn Hannibal away after he’d driven so far.

“I take it there hasn’t been any improvement in your symptoms, then, even after increasing the dose of your supplements?” Hannibal asked. That would have been easy enough to gauge from Will’s appearance alone, because he was sure he already looked sick as hell—pale, queasy, sleep-deprived. He shivered and tugged a robe around his shoulders before collapsing into a chair and gesturing for Hannibal to sit opposite him.

“Fever’s gone down, but I’m still too nauseous to eat. Sleeping hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Has there been any vomiting?”

Will shook his head.

“Fortunately, that suggests that though your illness may be unpleasant, it’s unlikely to be the death of you. However…” Hannibal leaned forward, elbows on his knees and a look of utter honesty on his face. “If you continue to suffer with no improvement and no further measurable symptoms, you may have to consider the possibility of them being psychosomatic.”

Will frowned. “In other words, I’m not really sick. My brain’s just making me think I am, and it’s doing a really good job of it.”

“In a manner of speaking. Your initial illness could have been a cold, but the more unusual symptoms, like the vertigo, could be stress-related rather than due to a physical condition.”

“Wouldn’t put it past my brain to find new ways to make my life miserable.” He dragged his hand over his face. “Okay. So is there anything I can do about this?”

“Therapy would be my first suggestion.”

Will grunted. “Hate to tell you this, Doctor, but if therapy is supposed to cure this, you’re not very good at your job.”

Hannibal didn’t seem offended. “I couldn’t target your psychosomatic symptoms without being aware of them as such. Now that I suspect this is a psychological issue rather than physical, we have options.”

“Such as?”

“Further observation could be useful.”

“Observation—like a sleep study?”

“Nothing so formal. That kind of environment could be more stressful and merely aggravate your existing symptoms. Rather, I’d suggest myself. I can act as a neutral observer to monitor your physical symptoms in case there is any cause for concern beyond the psychological, and perhaps gain a clearer idea as to what stressors could be contributing to the issue.”

Will frowned. “You already have a day job. I’d hate to impose like that.”

“It’s no problem at all. You’ve become more than a client to me, Will; you’re a friend. I’m happy to do what I can to make your life more comfortable for you. And if you’re concerned about the impact on my career, you could consider allowing me to collect and publish information anonymously, as a case study. I’m sure someone might find it useful.”

Will didn’t love the idea of any kind of data collection, but he didn’t seem to have many options at this point.

“Would I need to set up a place for you to stay in my house, or…?”

“You could, although I’d actually suggest you move into my spare room. There’s no way for me to avoid disrupting your routine entirely, and the way you respond to a fresh environment might give insight to the source of your problems.”

Though somewhat reluctant, Will agreed to it. Hannibal helped him pack up some necessities and arranged for a dog sitter in his absence, and Will relocated to Hannibal’s guest room.

The first night passed uneventfully. Hannibal cooked him a light dinner which he insisted was good for gastrointestinal distress, and Will managed to get to sleep with no more trouble than usual.

When he woke up the next morning he felt better, but that illusion shattered the moment he stood up. His head spun so fast he landed on his knees, retching.

He heard the door swing open.

“Will?” Hannibal crouched in front of him and placed a hand on his forehead. “Are you in any pain?”

Will grunted and had to remind himself not to shake his head, afraid of another hit of vertigo. “Just dizzy as hell. And motion sick, now.”

“That’s good. Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be long, now.”

“Until what?”

Hannibal didn’t answer. He just lent Will a hand. “Back into bed for now. I’ll get you something to settle your stomach.”

Will settled back into bed with a groan, and Hannibal brought him a steaming cup of something herbal and bitter. He winced, but gulped it down. Anything that might help.

Almost immediately, he felt a heavy fuzziness descend on him; drowsiness as if he’d just barely opened his eyes and was ready to fall back to sleep immediately. He stifled a yawn, then squinted. The light coming through the window sent a pang of pain through his head.

“Could you close the curtains, please?”

“Certainly.”

Darkness descended on the room, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and mumbled, “Feels like ‘m gonna pass out.”

“Go ahead. You’ll need your strength later.”

Will wasn’t aware of falling back asleep, and he wasn’t aware of waking up. But suddenly Hannibal wasn’t by the windows anymore, he was walking in through the creaking door, and the light edging around the window blinds seemed softer than the early morning light had been.

He was, however, still tired. His bones felt like they had been laced with lead and were dragging him down into the mattress. He tried to lift his hand, but couldn’t move it more than an inch—and looking at it, he saw that was because there was a leather cuff around it that was tightly secured to the bedpost. He looked down, trying to reorient himself, and saw he was naked.

“Hannibal?” he asked, voice tight with unease. “What’s going on?”

“While you were asleep, I made some adjustments to streamline this process.”

“Process?” He tugged at his wrist again, then the other, but they were both securely tied. He jerked his leg closer to him and was relieved to find that at least it wasn’t tied to anything. “What process are you talking about? Why am I tied up?”

Hannibal didn’t respond. He approached the bed and leaned over him, bending close. His inhale was long and audible.

“Did you just _smell_ me?” Will asked. His mind was racing. This had escalated to something unbelievably creepy in no time at all. It occurred to him that psychiatric patients were sometimes tied up if they were a danger to themselves or others, but surely Hannibal would be saying something if that was the case and Will had some kind of mental break?

“I needed to check your progress,” Hannibal replied mildly. “The medication I’ve been giving you has been altering your body structure, preparing you—but the timing is crucial. And it seems you’ve reached the ideal stage for me to continue.”

“Prepare me?” Will asked, voice cracking slightly. His mind raced—altering his body? “How? For what?”

“To become a host.” He cracked his neck and began to undress, which made it obvious enough what sort of continuation he had in mind, but Will couldn’t understand _why_. “I can’t explain everything right now, but you should know the basics. My species has been on this planet for a long time, if not so long as yours. There aren’t many of us, but our technology is good, and we’ve learned how to modify the human body to be compatible with ours to reproduce. That’s been the true cause of your illness. And now your body has finished the process, and you’re ready.”

This talk of another species sounded like absolutely lunacy, but before Will could ask any further questions, he was interrupted again, this time by a low but steady creaking noise—like a growl, or a very old house settling. And Will shut up, immediately attentive, because it sounded like it was coming from Hannibal, but his mind couldn’t fathom what business that creaking had coming from a human being.

Hannibal cracked his neck again, but more loudly, and with the bend of it looking just a little too sharp, veering uncomfortably far in each direction. He creaked again, and a chill raced along Will’s spine, as if he were a dog with his hackles raising.

Another crack and Hannibal’s neck broke—it _looked_ like it broke, it must have, bent at almost a right angle—but Hannibal was still standing, he didn’t even cry out. And then, crackling, it extended further, _grew_, vertebrae audibly clacking into a longer winding shape. Until Hannibal’s neck must have been a foot long, and it curved and twisted like the neck of some horrifying swan.

His shoulders rolled and crunched, his spine rolled and twisted, hunched until Will could see his vertebrae pushing at his skin, sharp and closed to splitting—until with a horrific _rip_ they did, and the shards of bloodied bone protruded and grew and protruded several inches from his back. Spurs of bone similarly erupted from his shoulders and elbows, leaving his skin split and oozing blood.

Hannibal made the creaking growl again, bathing Will’s bones in ice. He lay utterly stock still as Hannibal blinked rapidly, squeezing them shut as if tearing up. Then they shot wide open and looked straight at him, irises turned crimson and bleeding into the whites, his pupils lengthened into slits like a viper’s.

They were past the point of questions, past the point of anything resembling sanity.

Hannibal rested his hands on the foot of the bed, and Will was grateful he had his feet pulled up close to him, was grateful for any inch of space he could keep between them. His wrists kept a constant tension on their tethers but he couldn’t bring himself to struggle, the adrenaline blinding him and rendering him unable to move or speak.

There was another sickening crack and Hannibal grunted and bared his teeth—sharp, too sharp, too _numerous_. Thin and curving like a snake’s fangs. Will realized a moment later when Hannibal raised one foot onto the bed, and then the other, that the crunch had been his leg bones rearranging themselves, because he was able to sit on his haunches with his knees bent backwards.

Will’s mouth was bone dry, his head buzzing. _What are you_, he wanted to demand, but all that came from his mouth was a soft, bewildered gasp.

Hannibal tilted his head—a dizzying sight, with his neck so overgrown. A white membrane blinked across his eyes sideways, and Will had the vivid memory of seeing a Komodo dragon in a zoo with the exact same membrane, a third eyelid.

“The process may be… uncomfortable,” Hannibal hissed, mouth moving awkwardly around the syllables. Too many teeth, Will thought again, dizzied. “Not all survive. But you are strong. You will survive.”

Will felt sick. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t bear to take his eyes from the creature who was far too close to him, not even for a second.

Hannibal reached for his ankles, and now Will did move, drawing them in and thrashing suddenly, caught in a panicked frenzy. Hannibal growled, the unsettling creak echoing even louder now, fading into white noise, the shake of a rattlesnake’s tail. He caught Will’s ankles and yanked, and Will gasped in pain at what felt like needles, but were visible as sharp, lengthened talons, digging into his skin and drawing blood.

“Be good for me, Will,” Hannibal said. “I have been as courteous as I can. I could make things much worse for you if you struggle.”

Will didn’t know how anything could be worse than this, but he didn’t want to find out. He forced himself to be as still as he could be, though tremors surged across his body, rattling his wrists in their bounds.

“Please,” he whispered, unable to get his voice to work.

Hannibal prowled over him, dragging the back of his claws up Will’s legs. His head weaved back and forth like a charmed serpent, until it stretched out in front of him, zooming closer to Will’s face.

Will blanched, eyes wide.

“Open up, my dear boy,” Hannibal said, and Will’s stomach lurched when he realized what Hannibal meant.

He shook his head minutely, making a short noise of denial. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Hannibal frowned at him, then suddenly dipped his head and latched his teeth into Will’s upper arm.

What must have been a dozen sharp points sank into his flesh, and Will screamed. It burned, pain hot and racing up and down his arm—whether he had hit a nerve or was injecting him with some terrible venom, he didn’t know, but he could do little more than wail in response.

Quick as a flash, Hannibal grabbed his jaw while it was still parted in a scream, and pushed his mouth against Will’s. It wasn’t a kiss. Hannibal’s teeth dug deep under his chin and into his upper lip at the same time, and Will didn’t want to know how he managed to spread his jaw so wide. Then just as rapidly, his mouth was invaded. Something long, slimy, and rippled shot into his mouth and down his throat, wide enough to keep his teeth spread wide open—even if the threat of razor-sharp teeth sinking into his face wasn’t enough to keep him complacent. His skin crawled with revulsion, and his throat convulsed, desperately trying to expel whatever was worming its way down it.

It kept going. He could feel it squirming in his throat, hot and live and carving its way into him, deeper and deeper. A deep-seeded panic exploded; he couldn’t help thrashing until his back arced off the bed. He wanted to scream, needed to release the staggering pressure of fear crushing his chest, but it was too tightly lodged, spreading the muscles of his throat wide and useless. He became numb to his wrists rubbing raw and his claw-pricked skin, until all he could feel was this thing—Hannibal’s tongue, or proboscis, or whatever the hell it was—and the stampede of his heart.

The motion finally stopped. It must have gotten all the way to his stomach by now, and the sensation was disorienting beyond belief. Will gagged until his eyes rolled back into his head and he stopped breathing. He figured he’d pass out, maybe die.

A set of cold, sharp claws brushed over his cheek, and then there was a new noise—not the harsh agitated creak, but soft like a purr, rumbling through his body wherever Hannibal touched him, including the inside of his body.

His head swam again, and he fell utterly limp and dazed, as if he’d just been hit over the head with a shovel. His seizing throat softened and he managed to get a tiny wisp of air, and the purr came again, with another soft brush of claws against his cheek.

The thought floated through Will’s mind that Hannibal was gentling him like an animal.

Then the appendage in his throat rippled. At first just flexing like a hose filling with water, but then—

Something so big it ached when it pushed against his soft palate. Still inside the appendage, still in that vile slimy casing, but solid and unrelenting. It continued until it entered his throat—and if he thought he’d been spread open before, he was wrong. This thing spread him so wide he felt his adam’s apple crushed, skin pulled taut, vertebrae under immense pressure where they never should be. His vision filled with searing white, utter terror and certainty that he was going to die split open by this thing, his bones were going to break through his skin, his windpipe would be crushed, he’d suffocate, burst.

But the object sank all the way through his esophagus until it reached his stomach, and then he felt its weight drop into it, rolling low.

He gasped for air as best he could through his nostrils, vision sparking with lights from air deprivation and adrenaline. He expected Hannibal to withdraw, but he didn’t—and he made another choked noise as he felt another bump move into his mouth, just as large. Then another not far behind.

The word “reproduce” echoed through his mind, and he realized with horror that these were probably some kind of egg. Tears swelled in his eyes and spilled over his face. He wanted to scream or thrash or puke, but he was pinned in place and absolutely helpless.

Hannibal purred again, and another volley off eggs began. Will groaned and his wrists pulled weakly at their bounds. How many of these would he have to endure? How could he survive when bearing them?

He became aware of the skin of his stomach growing tighter, feeling bloated and out of place. Then he noticed something damp rubbing against his stomach, as slimy as the thing in his mouth. Hannibal purred more loudly.

Will could feel pressure building far lower in his abdomen than his stomach should have extended. He could feel the eggs expanding his anatomy grotesquely. It almost hurt—he was amazed it didn’t—but it also put pressure against his bladder, and his prostate. And the fuller he got, the stronger the feeling, until a bizarre shade of arousal colored the experience, making him flush with shame.

Hannibal finally retracted from his throat, pulling back as he did so. Will caught a horrifying glimpse of his jaw seemingly unhinged with a ribbed tube withdrawing into it, but then it was back and his mouth was closed. His neck, however, was still unnervingly long, and his eyes were just as red and reptilian.

Hannibal settled back and looked down, making another loud and satisfied purr. Will couldn’t help himself, morbid curiosity swimming through him. He looked down and immediately regretted it, because the sight suddenly made the concept even more real and horrifying.

His stomach was bulging and grotesquely distorted, all the way from the bottom of his sternum to his pelvic bone. It would have looked like he was nine months pregnant with triplets, if not for the fact that he could see the shapes of several individual eggs pressing at the bounds of his flesh. The skin was tauter than he would have thought possible, shining like a drum with pale stretch marks running across it, and he wondered with some hysteria if it might just split open and reveal the eggs cradled in the red mass of his guts.

He nearly started to hyperventilate.

“No, no, no. God, Hannibal, what… what the fuck have you done to me?”

But Hannibal’s expression was of utmost pride. When his body undulated, Will saw what he assumed was a penis—long and pink and wet—though it was shapeless and limp, almost more like a tentacle than anything. It rubbed over the huge bulge of his stomach, leaving a slick trail in its wake.

“You hold them so well,” Hannibal said, hand petting over the top of the mound. “The drugs made your stomach more supple so it could expand, and shortened some of your intestinal tract so there would be space. You look perfect.”

Will shook his head desperately. “I can’t… how… how do I move? What do I do when they hatch, will I have to… lay eggs?”

“You’ll move very little for the next week, but the gestation period is short. When they hatch, they’ll find their way out on their own.”

Will didn’t know what that meant, exactly, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know. Hannibal had told him he’d survive, but the vagueness of “find their way out” wasn’t enough to clarify if this was a more or less traditional sort of birth, or some kind of parasitic horror show with the spawn clawing their way out through his stomach. If it was the latter, he didn’t think he could stomach any further details.

He closed his eyes, willing his nausea to settle.

“How would you prefer I fertilize them?” Hannibal asked, throat rattling softly. Will’s eyes shot wide open again, and landed on the creature’s sizable appendage. “Front or back, either way will lead to your stomach.”

Being given a choice should have been some relief, but instead it made him feel ill and uneasy.

Ordinarily he would have thought his mouth would be preferable, but with his stomach so unsettled he couldn’t bear the thought of gagging on something again. He thought he’d probably vomit, or at least try, and if his stomach clenched around its current burden he might end up in a world of pain.

“Not my mouth,” he said, voice cracking.

Hannibal hummed, and the noise rattled into a purr.

“Very well.”

He tilted Will’s hips up, claws digging like needles into the soft flesh of his backside. Will closed his eyes again so he didn’t have to watch that slimy pink thing entering him, but he felt it vividly. First hot and wet at his entrance, then wiggling its way in—and it really did feel like it was wiggling, like a living tentacle, worming its way through his tight entrance and into his guts.

It didn’t hurt, at least, being slick and relatively slender, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless. He expected it to stop at a certain point, since it had looked to be no more than eight inches long, but it didn’t. It kept going. He felt the pressure of it slithering deep through his intestines, causing an unpleasant cramp that spread across his lower abdomen. Will whimpered as the pressure built and built, until finally the forward motion ceased and he just felt a ripple along its length, veering back and forth through his guts.

Hannibal made another purring noise and retracted himself, and Will felt a sickening lurch, like his intestines were going to follow it as it slithered out of his body. He whined at the unpleasant sensation of sudden, even though he was still full to bursting, and Hannibal curled over his stomach protectively.

Will started shivering as his adrenaline crashed, unable to sustain itself any longer. He felt like he was having the cold sweats of a fever. Hannibal must have noticed, but he acted as if he was unaware, simply petting and staring at the enormous bulge of his stomach, preening over his clutch. Will wondered how many eggs were inside him now. He wondered how it made a damn difference.

When Hannibal seemed satisfied with the amount of attention paid to Will’s stomach, he offered Will something to ease his way into sleep, and Will accepted without hesitation.

Going under was a mercy.


End file.
